


For Her Honor

by Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluffy Ending, Jousting, Mutual Pining, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria
Summary: When the Inquisition is faced with blackmail from Orlesian Chevaliers, the Inquisitor has no choice but to play by their rules.Can a knight in shining armor save her from their wicked machinations?





	For Her Honor

**Author's Note:**

> The Inquisitor is a female Trevelyan for the purposes of this story, but her features have been left intentionally vague, so you may imagine what you like. :)

“They want _what?_ ”

Each of the advisors stiffened at the Inquisitor’s uncharacteristically threatening tone. The Lady Trevelyan, to whom the three had grown accustomed over the past half year or so, was a kind and cordial woman with measured grace, always optimistic and hardly without a smile on her face, even when covered in the blood of her enemies. Thus, her suddenly narrowed eyes, dark with anger, and her hissed words came as quite the surprise to them…

…even given what her reaction was in response to.

Cullen’s throat visibly bobbed and his hand clenched on the pommel of his sword, but he otherwise remained silent. Leliana’s lips thinned, and her gaze fell to the war table, as if she could no longer meet her superior’s furious and affronted countenance. Josephine dipped her head almost in apology, but dared to offer the Inquisitor a small smile, repeating the demands that were clearly written on the letter she yet held in her slender fingers.

“I am sorry, Inquisitor, but they insist that be their prize. If we lose, in addition to joining your trusted cohort, the winning Chevalier wishes to take your hand in marriage.”

“No.”

Inquisitor Trevelyan’s terse tone left no room for argument. And yet argue Josephine did.

“But, Inquisitor, we cannot simply tell them-”

She stopped abruptly as the Inquisitor raised her hand to halt her words, and the moments that followed were heavy with pin-drop silence. Then, Trevelyan began to pace back and forth, voicing her frustrations as her advisors looked on.

“I was all in favor of this tournament to prove to them how foolish they are to challenge us so brazenly, until you read such a ridiculous demand,” she said. She stopped in her tracks, pointing a stiff finger at the letter Josephine held. “But _that_ tells me all they want to do is trap me. Harness me. Control me, and thus the Inquisition. I will not allow them the opportunity.”

She half-turned away, as if to leave them standing there. But then she spun back, her rage magnified tenfold.

“How _dare_ they!?” she shouted, her voice ringing off of the stone walls of the War Room and causing all three advisors to wince. “First they tell me I surround myself with nothing more than barbaric mercenaries clamoring for blood and gold,” she said, her sharp gaze meeting Cullen’s. “Then they tell me I had better host a tournament to defend my honor and that of my _own_ organization,” she, continued, glancing to Leliana. “And _then_ , on top of _that_ , they dare to demand as prize not only a place at my side, but also my hand in marriage?” her voice rose significantly as her eyes fell back to Josephine. “No! A thousand times, _no_! I don’t care what lies they spread about me or us.”

“With all due respect, we cannot do that, Inquisitor,” Leliana said firmly. “These Chevaliers are former soldiers of Gaspard. They know we went through the Grand Duke to get into Halamshiral, and they also know we ultimately did not support his claim to the throne. If we don’t host this tournament, they will follow through with their plan to spread the image that we are backstabbing traitors and enemies of Orlais. They will do everything in their power to convince the court that the Inquisition’s goal was to control the Empire all along.”

“And considering how you chose to blackmail their leaders into cooperating with each other and the Inquisition at the Winter Palace,” Josephine added. “It won’t be a difficult thing for them to manage.”

Another spell of heavy silence fell over the room. Trevelyan’s mouth was half open as she looked back and forth between them, and it was obvious that, in that moment, she felt completely and utterly helpless. None of the advisors had seen her with such an expression before, and it was jarring to each of them.

At last, her voice was quiet as she shook her head, her Anchor hand going to the back of her head and clenching in her hair, “So, the blackmailer becomes the blackmailed. I should have known better than to stoop to such tactics. The Orlesians always were the best at it.” She glanced up again, her face becoming stony. “So that’s it, then? We have to host a tournament in which my…my hand will be prize? And you’ll enforce it if we lose?”

“We won’t lose.”

The sudden response from the Commander had all three women looking at him with brows lifted. He had, up until that point, been quiet, as he usually was regarding Orlesian political affairs. Now, though, his set jaw and fiery amber gaze said everything they needed to know regarding his thoughts on the matter.

“Wait… _you’re_ going along with this, too?” Trevelyan asked incredulously, as if she hoped he would offer some way out of this predicament.

“We will host the tournament,” he replied shortly. “And we _will_ win.”

At that, a small smile pulled at the corner of Leliana’s mouth. “Yes. We will win. We must.”

Josephine nodded her agreement. “They are correct. We cannot afford to ignore this challenge, but neither can we afford to lose, as the Inquisition will be damaged just as much, if not more so. We must agree to the Chevaliers’ terms, but we must also ensure that we do not have to abide by them. That _you_ do not have to abide by them.”

Trevelyan blinked. Then, she nodded almost imperceptibly, as if in acceptance. She visibly swallowed, and her response was so soft it was difficult to hear her.

“Oh. Well. All right…I suppose since you three seem to have things well in hand already…I will just…let you handle it. I will go to my quarters and…try to catch up on some paperwork. Yes. I will do that.”

She turned away, moving as if in a dream as she kept muttering to herself, “Yes…go to my quarters. Do some paperwork. Read. Study. Maybe have a drink. Or two. Or three…”

When the door to the War Room finally creaked close behind the Inquisitor, all three advisors let out pent-up breaths.

“I am certain we can handle this,” Josephine said, making a few notes on her tablet. “I’ve already penned a response we can send to these Chevaliers.”

“And I already have a plan,” Leliana added. “One that will send them running back to Orlais in shame and dishonor after we win.” Her gaze shifted to Cullen, and she added with a sly smile, “After _you_ win.”

Cullen’s brow rose. “Me?”

“Yes,” the Nightingale replied, leaning forward onto the war table as she glanced back and forth between her fellow advisors. “You. You are Fereldan and of common birth, as well as the Commander of the Inquisition. Losing to you would not only prove the Inquisition’s martial competence and boost the morale of your soldiers immensely, but it would also forever shame the challengers in the eyes of their peers. They will never recover.”

“The best of the noble Chevaliers losing to…oh, this will be _wonderful!_ ” Josephine said, her hand going to her mouth in glee.

Cullen sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m flattered by your confidence, but how precisely are you going to make sure that I come out on top in this?”

At that, Leliana’s smile turned unnervingly wicked.

“You’ll see.”

\-------------------------------------------

“So, what are we here for, exactly?”

Later that afternoon, Cassandra, Blackwall, Knight-Captain Rylen, and Ser Michel de Chevin stood on the opposite side of the war table from the advisors, having been summoned there not long after the Inquisitor’s departure.

Josephine huffed out a sigh. “The Inquisition has dire need of your martial prowess. We are faced with a challenge from five Chevaliers who once served under Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. They claim that the Inquisition is no better than a cobbled-together band of mercenaries with ‘no professional prowess and no honor,’ in their words. They demand that our best meet them on tourney grounds to prove these claims false. Their terms are as follows: if we win, they will walk away and never speak ill of the Inquisition again; if, however, we lose, then they demand a place at the Inquisitor’s side…and, furthermore, for the winning Chevalier amongst them, her hand in marriage.”

“That is ridiculous,” Cassandra said, crossing her arms. “Refuse.”

“The Inquisitor said the same,” Leliana replied. “But I’m afraid our reply must also be the same to you as it was to her. We cannot. They are blackmailing us.”

“With _what_?” Rylen asked.

“With the rumor that the Inquisition has maneuvered to gain control of the Empire and operates it like a puppet master,” Josephine explained. “It would turn many in Orlais against us and jeopardize our standing with the Empress, even after all we accomplished at Halamshiral.”

Michel snorted. “Of course.”

“Then I am presuming you have a plan?” Blackwall inquired.

“Yes,” Leliana confirmed. “We have summoned the four of you here because we would like you to be, in addition to our Commander here, our answering champions. You are our best, and are the only ones who stand a significant chance of defeating our challengers.”

“It would be my honor to fight on behalf of the Inquisition,” said Michel.

His answer was echoed by the others with nods and murmurs of agreement.

“We had hoped you would say so,” Josephine replied, the relief evident on her face and in her voice.

 “How long to we have to prepare, then?” Cassandra asked.

“Three weeks,” Cullen said. “We decided it would be a suitable accompaniment to traditional Wintersend celebrations.”

“Especially considering the holiday’s connection to marriage,” Leliana added.

“Which, of course, we will _not_ be subjecting the Inquisitor to,” Josephine explained. “We _must_ ensure that we win this tournament, not only for the honor of the Inquisition, but also for the Inquisitor’s sake.”

“So we must combine our training and techniques,” Cullen clarified. “We each have our own area of combat expertise, yes, even though we’ve studied martial tactics outside those areas. But now we must utilize everything we can, even those methods outside our arenas, if we are to make certain we win against these Chevaliers. Despite their hubris, they are still graduates of the Academie, and as such, they are formidable opponents.”

Michel smirked. “I am no longer considered a Chevalier myself. As such, it would not be dishonorable to share my techniques with you. For the sake of the Inquisitor and the Inquisition, I will teach you whatever I can.”

 “Agreed,” Cassandra said. “The Seekers are no more, and so there is no one to object to my imparting advice based on Seeker training. I will gladly share what I know.”

“I’ll admit,” Blackwall added, “there’s not one set of tactics among Grey Wardens, but I’ll share what I can from what I’ve picked up during my travels. If it can help, it will be worth it.”

Rylen nodded. “Aye. The Commander and I can no doubt share valuable instruction, as well. I’m sure I speak for the both of us when I say that if what we know can help us win this, we will gladly impart our knowledge.”

“Good,” Leliana replied. “Remember…you only have three weeks to hone your skills. Make that time count.”

\-------------------------------------------

That night, after Cullen had retreated to his tower, Leliana and Josephine sat in the latter’s office, sipping cups of strong Antivan coffee as they planned the tournament to come. Already, the Ambassador was working to ensure the event would be a suitably grand affair. In addition to all the residents of Skyhold, invitations to several allies in Ferelden and the Free Marches had been penned, so that they might serve as further witnesses to the Chevaliers’ shame. Josephine wanted to make certain that, once this unfortunate business was finally done, there would be no place in Thedas the Orlesians could run to hide their grave mistake.

It would be a three-day contest, each day focusing on a different event style. The first day would consist of a grand melee, in which the ten contestants would engage with each other as teams. Each contestant who felled an opponent would win a point. Whoever remained standing at the end would earn victory for whichever team they represented. The second day would feature a series of one-on-one duels between each contestant, for a total of twenty-five matches. Each duelist would earn a point per victory, and the side that earned the most points that day would be considered victorious. Finally, the third day would consist of traditional jousting, with three passes per pair of riders or until one side was unhorsed, at which point the combat would change to a duel with the same rules as the previous day.

Ultimately, the team with the most points accumulated over the course of the three days would become the victors of the tournament. The individual with the most points would be crowned the tournament champion.

And Josephine and Leliana were determined that Commander Cullen would be that champion.

“She likes him, you know,” the Nightingale said as she refilled her cup from the silver pot.

“Oh, I know,” Josephine replied with a grin, pausing her writing to glance up at her friend. “I’m fairly certain _everyone_ knows. Or if they do not, then they suspect.”

“Cassandra says she and Trevelyan share many interests,” Leliana added casually, “particularly in regards to their literary tastes.” She sipped from her steaming cup before continuing, “She made me swear not to spread this around, but I think it will help us here: Trevelyan is particularly enamored of fairytale romances. Brave knights rescuing princesses from towers and all that. What if we were to turn this tournament into that very thing?”

Josephine looked up again, slowly placing her quill into her inkwell as she considered her companion’s words. “Well, it does seem…” she trailed, her eyes growing wide as the Nightingale smiled mischievously. “Oh, Leliana! You’re not serious?”

“I am,” she replied simply, placing her cup back on the edge of Josephine’s desk. “The Inquisitor is already threatened with marriage, not only to people she doesn’t know, but also people she already despises. It is the stuff of many an old romance, and all it needs is a champion to save her from her ill fate…”

“…and become her paramour after months of pining _Leliana you are magnificent!_ ” Josephine said, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “But…do you think it will work? That they will…?”

Leliana nodded emphatically. “I am certain. All they need is an opportunity to come face to face with their feelings.”

“And you’re truly sanctioning this potential romance? The Inquisitor and her Commander?”

The Nightingale sighed. “Well, it isn’t as though I can prevent them from doing it anyway. Besides, they both are deserving of happiness. Everyone is. If they truly make each other happy, who are we to keep them from each other?”

Josephine appeared as if she was about to burst with giddiness. “Oh! The pageantry, the romance…the borderline _scandal_!” She swiftly took up her pen again and swiped another sheet of clean parchment. “Those Chevaliers will _rue_ the day they ever challenged us. When we are done, this will be nothing but legendary! Let’s see…” she scribbled down a few notes. “Romantic favours. We _must_ have them. Despite the practice going out of fashion outside almost everywhere but Orlais, we should respect tradition. Especially in light of our participants. But…” she trailed, glancing up at Leliana again. “I’m not certain the Commander himself would agree to bestow them upon anyone. The Cullen I know would never openly declare his romantic interest in the Inquisitor at a public venue.”

Leliana shook her head. “Did you see the look on his face at the meeting earlier? And how defensive he was? This isn’t just about the Inquisition’s military integrity being questioned, not even for our stoic Commander. It’s about _her_.” She sipped at her coffee again. “If it will clearly mark the Inquisitor as off-limits, he will do it. Mark my words. Besides,” she added with a tiny smile, “if only we know who he really is, then he will feel more comfortable sharing his feelings.”

Josephine blinked. “You are suggesting he compete anonymously?”

“That is precisely what I am suggesting,” the Spymaster answered. “I have a plan to convince the Commander to pretend to fall ill the day before the tournament begins. He will have to keep up the act everywhere outside of the tourney grounds, but it will allow him to enter the tournament as an anonymous champion on behalf of the Inquisition. Only he will know. The others will believe they are short one combatant, at least on the first day, and thus, will fight harder to secure victory.”

Josephine laughed lightly, shaking her head almost in disbelief. “Leliana, by Andraste’s ashes, I swear you sound like you are just as much of a romantic at heart as Cassandra.”

“Perhaps I am.”

\-------------------------------------------

The Inquisitor sniffled, blinking back tears of emotion as she stood out on her balcony – the one facing the towering mountains that cradled her mighty fortress. Even though she knew full well no one would disturb her at this hour, she still couldn’t help but try and hide the sounds of her misery. The Inquisitor couldn’t cry. Especially not about something as silly as this.

And yet, she had. She had wept off-and-on for the rest of the day, a now-empty wine bottle her only companion, unable to think about anything else. And judging from the sharp sting in her eyes as the cool night air hit them, she was threatening to start up again.

It wasn’t the challenge from the Chevaliers that upset her so, but rather their demand for her hand as prize. Forcing her into marriage to avoid blackmail. She thought she had luckily managed to escape an arranged marriage when she was prepared to enter the Chantry. Then she was sent off to the Conclave, became the only survivor of the subsequent disaster, and first dubbed the Herald of Andraste before becoming leader of the new Inquisition. She had thought her days of fretting over unwanted suitors long over.

But now, it seemed even the title of Inquisitor couldn’t save her from the threat of such things.

She shook her head, biting her bottom lip so hard she tasted metal past the alcohol. Why was she worrying about it so much? Her loyal advisors had already informed her they would do everything in their power to ensure the Inquisition’s victory. And judging from the look on her Commander’s face right before she left the meeting, the challengers had a great chance of finding themselves ground into a pulp on the tourney grounds.

But victory was never completely assured. Luck always ran out, sooner or later. And if, Maker forbid, the Inquisition _did_ lose this tournament, would she be forced to abide by the Chevaliers’ preposterous terms? Would Josephine have any other recourse?

She gritted her teeth, whirling around and marching back into her chambers.

_No. They will lie dead on the field by my hand before my will is taken from me._

She halted in her tracks. Oh, that would look wonderful for the Inquisition, no? Agree to the terms of the challengers, and then when faced with defeat, slaughter them all to escape them. That would just prove the Chevaliers’ claims correct after all.

_Damn them!_

She slowly sank to her knees on the rug as the tears began to flow again, and she pounded the floor in her frustration, earning her naught but a sore hand. She was tired of crying. She hated this feeling of helplessness. Hated being at someone else’s mercy. There was nothing she could do, and it was eating her up inside.

Her final thoughts before sleep took her, hours later, were silly notions she hadn’t entertained since Ostwick – the foolish, girlish hope that some knight in shining armor would come and save her.

\-------------------------------------------

“You can’t be serious.”

It was the day before the tournament, and Cullen felt much like he had during those first few weeks of Templar training – like he’d been scrubbed over his mother’s washboard for days, thrown down the highest mountain in the Frostbacks, and then run over by a herd of stampeding druffalo. All in preparation for the trial to come.

And now the Nightingale wanted him to fake illness and stay out of the melee?

“It’s just for the first day,” she explained, her voice quiet, even though she’d locked the door to the hidden library so no one could follow them and eavesdrop. The two advisors now stood amongst thick cobwebs the servants hadn’t bothered to sweep away, centuries’ old dust tickling the Commander’s nose. “After that, you’ll compete anonymously. We had Harritt make a simple armor to your measurements with no identifying markers. So long as you don’t talk, no one will know it is you.”

“Anonymously?” he asked. “And what is the purpose of that?”

She smiled. “To make the final blow all the harder, of course. An anonymous player will have the Chevaliers intrigued. They will have far more interest in you. And as you defeat them, they will be first puzzled and then frustrated by you. It will give your fellow combatants an edge, because their opponents will be more concerned about _you_ than their known enemies. And when you are finally revealed, they will be brought to their knees and their reputations will be shattered.”

He shook his head. “And you’re willing to gamble that this first day will go in our favor without me?”

“It may not,” she conceded. “But even if it doesn’t, we still have two remaining days to make up for it. Besides, if you truly spend tomorrow resting while the others compete, you will be given an advantage that they will not have.”

“This is ridiculous,” he said, echoing Cassandra’s words as he turned from his colleague and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I agree,” Leliana replied shortly. “And because we have been subjected to this farce, we should strive to make our retaliation as painful as possible.”

Silence followed, during which he let out a heavy sigh, dropping his hand back to his side.

“Remember the Inquisitor, Commander,” the Nightingale added at length. “She suffers in this more than we. We should do everything we can to make the Chevaliers suffer _more_.”

More silence. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. Then, at last, he nodded once in agreement.

“All right.”

\-------------------------------------------

“He’s _what?!_ ”

Even in the bitter cold of the Frostbacks, Inquisitor Trevelyan felt as though she would faint.

A rather fancy, if small, tournament grounds had been built not far from the Inquisition’s army encampment, complete with stands for the crowd, a sheltered box for the Inquisitor and her Inner Circle, and lists, all decorated with banners and fluttering pennants. Skyhold loomed in the distance, and from the castle flowed a steady stream of people, all headed to the stands to watch the imminent spectacle. Nobles and dignitaries were chief among these guests, and Trevelyan was positive Josephine had purposefully invited half the damned nobility in southern Thedas to see this show. But the Inquisitor herself couldn’t see most of this activity, as her position in the high box, draped with luxurious fabrics to shield her from wind and sun, blocked the view of the castle road and most of the stands to either side.

Josephine stood before her, wedged between the front row of seats and the edge of the box, a thick fur shawl wrapped about the Ambassador’s shoulders. “I assure you, Your Worship, the Commander is in good hands,” she replied, attempting to placate the now-visibly-flustered Inquisitor. “He is being tended to by our best, and I am certain he will make a quick recovery. He wished me to pass along his sincerest apologies and told me that he will be praying for our success this day.”

She then perched on the long bench beside the Inquisitor, who bent forward, holding her head in her hands. Trevelyan knew it was a rather un-Inquisitor-like gesture, but she didn’t exactly give a damn. They were down a defender, with no planned substitute, which sorely jeopardized their chances.

_Her_ chances.

_We should have foreseen something like this…_

“Do the others know?” she asked at last, desperately trying to keep the tears from falling. They threatened to ruin the delicate eye makeup she had worn for the occasion, and as she straightened once more, she forced herself to regain her composure.

Josephine nodded. “Leliana has gone to inform them. She will be returning shortly.”

At that moment, Vivienne stepped into the box, radiating elegance and poise as she usually did. The Knight-Enchantress’s dark eyes were immediately drawn to the Inquisitor’s face, and her stoic façade melted briefly as she rushed to Trevelyan’s side.

“Oh, my dear, has something gone wrong?” she asked, sitting on the opposite side from Josephine, concern writ on her features.

“The Commander…won’t be fighting for us,” the Inquisitor replied quietly. “He has fallen ill.”

Vivienne’s brows rose, and then knitted. “Chin up, darling. If our other champions are aware of this, then you can rest assured they will fight hard enough to make up for the loss. They know they must.” She glanced over Trevelyan’s outfit, adding, “You look radiant today. Don’t let this setback take that from you.”

At that, the Inquisitor couldn’t help but smile a little. She had indeed picked her current garb for the sole purpose of channeling radiance. She wore a pure white tunic, high-collared and long-sleeved, the hem cut short in the front, but with a tail behind that resembled a skirt, which currently pooled beneath her fur-covered seat. Underneath, she wore white halla-hide breeches and tan bear-hide boots, and her hands were covered with similar bear-hide gloves, concealing her Mark. All were embroidered with delicate floral patterns in gold thread. Her hair she had put up in a tight braided twist, a single strand of pearls woven throughout, and at her throat was a matching pearl choker, gifted to her by the Empress.

She doubted anyone but herself would note the significance of that last item.

One by one, her companions trickled into the box to join her, offering their encouragements as they did so. Vivienne ultimately moved to sit behind her once Leliana returned, so that she was flanked by her two present advisors. All the while, she wondered what had happened to Cullen, and if his illness was truly serious. Had someone poisoned him to sabotage the Inquisition? She would have to visit him later…

The next half hour passed by in a blur. Before she knew it, the stands were packed with spectators, and the challengers were being introduced on the grounds below. She found herself unable to listen to Josephine’s announcement, the good Ambassador’s voice a mere buzz despite the fact she was practically yelling in the Inquisitor’s ear for the audience to hear her clearly. Instead, Trevelyan’s attention was focused on the four brave souls who stood opposite the Chevaliers, each with grim expressions on their faces – she could tell even from such a great distance.

Ser Michel wore the same armor as the Chevaliers, minus the traditional yellow feather in his helm. Cassandra had her usual heavy mail, but with the addition of a sturdy helmet Trevelyan had never seen her wear before, it’s crest like the flaming eye of the Seekers that looked not unlike a crown. Blackwall had donned his favored Griffon Plate along with a new visored helm that mirrored a griffon’s beaked head. Knight-Captain Rylen’s armor was the most dramatic change of all, being a significantly heavier and more reinforced set than he typically wore…more in line with the front-line foot soldiers’ mail, but with even greater protection.

All sported swords and shields in hand, and she could tell already that this was going to be a long, brutal fight.

They were to battle with real weapons, not blunted, and although the goal was to land non-lethal blows in order to incapacitate opponents, the Inquisitor knew that honor was the only thing reinforcing that policy. And despite the Chevaliers’ tendency to tout their adherence to honorable conduct, she thought this whole charade was the direct result of their lack of it. She didn’t trust them. Though she knew her friends and comrades were highly skilled, she still feared for them.

And even though he was out of the fighting, she feared for Cullen, too…

Then, suddenly, Josephine was sitting beside her again, visors were lowered, and the fight began at last.

The noise. Maker, the _noise_. The combatants clashed together, a constant clanging of blades and shields, but this was quickly drowned out by the deafening roar of the crowd. Many of Cullen’s off-duty soldiers had gathered to support the Inquisition, and they perhaps cheered the loudest of all the spectators, encouraging the champions – and in particular, their Knight-Captain – with whoops and chants. The Inquisitor so longed to cheer with them, to offer her voice to the shouts for her friends, but public image demanded she appear more “dignified” than that. It frustrated her to no end, and she caught herself tightening her hands in her lap as she watched the fight. She realized she must have been visibly tense to everyone else when she felt Vivienne’s hand gently squeeze her shoulder – a reminder, but also a silent reassurance.

The five Chevaliers did their best to drag it out. Despite their despicable nature, they worked together brilliantly, like some sort of terrible machine. Ser Michel held up the best against their line, and he was also the one exposing the most holes in their defenses. It was his hand that caused the first Orlesian to fall, his low slash, quick as lightning, slicing the side of the man’s thigh from hip to knee deep enough to stain blue wool scarlet. Unsurprisingly, the Chevalier immediately yielded, surrendering to the scouts of Leliana’s who swiftly helped him to the waiting healers.

_Four to four. One point for the Inquisition._

The crowd only grew wilder, and Trevelyan had to resist the urge to cover her ears with her hands. She felt certain she would be half-deaf after this…

Unfortunately, the others didn’t fare quite so well. While Michel kept working on picking the Chevalier’s off one by one, Blackwall, Cassandra, and Rylen were kept on their toes and wearing out fast. Those three were used to dispatching enemies quickly, not holding up to an endless melee, and the way the Chevaliers were working in tandem, it was becoming increasingly difficult to accomplish that. All the while, they were desperately trying to avoid being taken out of the running themselves.

“ _Oohhh!_ ”

The crowd gasped as Blackwall suddenly went down, one Chevalier having finally successfully feinted and exposed the gap between the Warden’s shield and shoulder. The Chevalier was ruthless, stabbing deep enough to elicit a roar from Blackwall as his shield slipped from his arm. Cassandra’s retaliation was swift, as she took advantage of the brief pause to surge forward and answer with a few decisive hits of her own. The first rang loudly on the Chevalier’s helm, causing him to stagger backwards before she struck again, batting his sword from his hand and slicing into his side hard enough to completely sever the strap holding his breastplate there. All the while she took punishment herself during this attack, barely fending off his nearest comrade with her shield.

The agents assisted Blackwall and the second Chevalier from the field, and the Inquisitor held her breath.

_Three to three. Two points for the Inquisition, one point for the Chevaliers…_

The battle seemed to accelerate after that. Blows were exchanged on both sides, but the quickness to yield was fading. Both parties were determined to hang on, ignoring the trickles of blood where blades managed to skirt past plate and chain. The soldiers were yelling themselves hoarse, and everyone in the Inquisitor’s box was now leaning forward in their seats in anticipation.

The end came swiftly.

Rylen was the next to fall, much to the disappointment of the crowd, leaving Cassandra and Michel alone to fend off the three remaining Chevaliers. After that, it was only a matter of time. Michel’s gamble of a relentless assault to try to even the playing field only resulted in his own defeat by the same Chevalier who felled Rylen, and Cassandra, despite her skill, could not hold off her trio of emboldened attackers forever.

She at last had no choice but to yield.

The day was a loss for the Inquisition, no matter how valiantly fought, and Inquisitor Trevelyan bit her lip as she fought the emotions raging inside of her.

Josephine, with some reluctance, then stood and withdrew from a bouquet a single red rose. Once the audience’s indignant shouting died down, she announced both to them and to the three remaining Chevaliers, “It is customary for the victor to award a rose to the lady of his choosing amongst the spectators of the tournament. Ser Stefan, you stand as the champion with the most points this day. Come retrieve your prize and gift it as you please.”

“Of course, Madame Ambassador,” he replied with a dip of his head, his voice slightly muffled past his heavy masked helm. Trevelyan noted he did his best to hide his limping from a wound given to him by Rylen as he strode towards the box. Josephine bent forward to hand him the flower, but as he took it, he merely stepped sideways and extended the rose to the Inquisitor. “I would be a fool to choose anyone but you, Your Worship.”

She swallowed hard, leaning forward in her seat and taking the rose with her best fake smile, all the while having to muster every ounce of her willpower to keep from throwing it onto the box floor and grinding it into a pulp beneath her heel.

She wanted to scream. The whole time Josephine described the next day’s event and dismissed the audience, Trevelyan wanted to scream and shout and cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she sat in the poised manner in which she was expected until the spectators finally began to disperse. Only after half the crowd had departed did she stand and leave herself, marching out of the box with purpose in her steps. She ignored all calls of her name, all requests for her attention. Back to the castle she strode, her skirt trailing behind her like a white cloud.

On and on and on she went, her walk brisk and her pace unchanged as she climbed the hill, crossed the bridge, passed through the gatehouse, traversed the courtyard, mounted the keep stairs, entered the main hall, and at last ascended upwards to her private quarters. Then, and only then, did she stop at last, her breath labored and loud in the empty chamber.

Then, stalking towards the blazing hearth, she took one look at the poor rose she yet held in a crushing grip and tossed it into the flames, where the Chevalier’s false token of adoration swiftly turned to ash.

\-------------------------------------------

Cullen paced back and forth in his tiny room in the keep’s infirmary wing, unable to stay in the bed any longer. Josephine had delivered the news of the day’s events, and it wasn’t good. Just as he had predicted, their four remaining champions had been outmatched, despite putting up what the Ambassador described as a “valiant fight.” He couldn’t imagine how they all felt right now after losing the melee, and part of him hated himself for going along with Leliana’s plan.

Still, there were two days left, days during which he _would_ be competing, and he vowed he would make up for their stinging loss…

Then, suddenly, he heard footsteps on the stair, and he rushed back to the bed. Leliana had persuaded him to wear only his breeches so as to help convince any visitors that he was, indeed, indisposed. As he heard muffled voices beyond the door – the guest speaking with the guard the Nightingale herself had placed there – he threw himself onto the cot once more and swiftly pulled the covers up under his chin, leaving only his arms exposed.

Just then, the door opened a little.

“Commander, the Inquisitor requests to see you,” the guard said quietly. Leliana had picked her actor well. He spoke as if to avoid too harshly rousing Cullen from an illness-induced nap, and his expression was grim.

“Very well,” Cullen replied, putting on his best weakened tone. It wasn’t too difficult to manage, given past experience. “Let her in.”

“Of course, Commander.”

The guard withdrew, letting Inquisitor Trevelyan enter before quietly closing the door behind her. She was a vision in white, moving with the grace of a swan, and he felt his breath hitch involuntarily; he thought she was always beautiful in everything she wore, whether it was her casual garb or her armor, but she looked especially lovely now. She did not greet him with her usual small smile, though. Instead, her face was etched with solemnity, her countenance pale, and her eyes puffy and swollen. He could tell from the way her hair haphazardly spilled about her shoulders in patterned crimps that it had been up at some point, but she had since pulled it down.

His first impulse was to stand and ask her what the matter was. But then again, he knew _exactly_ what the matter was, and displaying both too much inquisitiveness and excessive activity would reveal his and Leliana’s lie…

“Commander,” she said, her voice breaking a little. She approached tentatively, perching on a stool that had been left at his bedside, and he could feel her gaze sweep over his features. “I was told you fell ill last night. How are you faring? Are you all right?”

He swallowed, and then cleared his throat. “Better. The healers have been of great help. I suspect I will be back to normal in a few days.”

Her lips pressed together as she glanced away, and he knew she was thinking of his absence at the tournament. Deciding to add something that was truthful, he said, “I am sorry, Inquisitor. I heard of the events on the field. You have my sincerest apologies for allowing this failure to happen.”

“Oh, Commander, it’s not your fault!” she said, abruptly taking his hand in her smaller, slenderer fingers. She wasn’t wearing gloves, just as he wasn’t, and he very nearly flinched at the contact – they had never touched before. Though her skin was cool, it wasn’t in an unpleasant way, and he marveled at the firmness of her grip as she squeezed his hand in gentle admonishment. “We should have been careful enough to foresee something like this…plan for a substitute. I know you wanted to be out there. I know you would if you could be. But with you ailing as you are, it is far better for you to be here.”

_It’s not…_ he thought. _It’s not…_

“What happened?” she asked as she leaned a little closer, scooting nearer to the edge of the bed. “Did last night’s dinner not sit well? Did…did someone perhaps poison you to sabotage the tournament?”

Of course. He wasn’t coughing, sneezing, or otherwise displaying symptoms of normal seasonal illness. She had likely suspected poison from the beginning, considering the timing, and seeing him in person and feeling his body temperature had only exacerbated that suspicion.

Scrambling to answer her, he blurted the first excuse that came to mind.

“N-no, Inquisitor. It...it was just withdrawals. But they were particularly bad, this time.”

Not precisely a lie. He had suffered a bout of tremors and a splitting headache the previous day, but that was likely induced by practicing too intensely on the training field. By the Maker’s grace, it had been over by the time he had retired for the night.

Thankfully, he was certain she was unaware of what lyrium withdrawal actually entailed…

Her eyes widened. “Oh no! I remember you said you could…but…oh _no!_ ” she repeated, putting her free hand to her open mouth as her other still held his.

Andraste help him, she really _was_ worried now. In an effort to reassure her, he gently squeezed her hand back and offered a small smile. “I will be fine, Inquisitor. I’ve been pushing myself very hard, lately. Perhaps too hard. But it is nothing a bit of rest won’t fix.”

“Oh Maker, of all the things to-” she began, muttering mostly to herself before she stood, leaning towards him. “Of course. I should leave you to recover in peace. I…I hope you feel better soon.”

She hesitated, hovering awkwardly for a moment as she was bent over him. He blinked. She made as if to reach for his face, stopped herself by pulling back briefly, and then reached again, tentatively brushing his hair back with one hand, her touch feather-light. Before he could even process what she was doing, she bent further and pressed her lips to his forehead, just below his hairline. She lingered there but a second before swiftly withdrawing, almost gliding towards the door.

“Good evening, Commander,” she said as she paused and looked back at him. “Sleep well.”

“And you, Inquisitor,” he replied as he watched her leave, unable to keep his voice from sounding a bit wonderstruck.

And then she was gone. Gone because she thought she had to leave for his sake.

He stayed in that position, half-raised off the bed and staring at the door, listening to her footsteps fade away. Finally, however, he flopped back down and shoved his head deeper into the pillow, letting out a long breath he didn’t know he had been holding. His brain was desperately trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Maker, he could still feel her lips on his forehead, the skin tingling ever so slightly…

He shook his head. It was just a chaste kiss. A kiss from a concerned friend, and a friend who also happened to be his immediate superior. She was just worried for him, that was all.

_On top of everything else…_

Guilt gnawed at his heart. He knew she was holding in her feelings and trying to keep from exploding, letting out her anger and disappointment only in private where no one else could see or hear. Andraste preserve him, she was positively sickened by these events, and he had done nothing but make it worse.

His jaw set.

Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow would be different.

\-------------------------------------------

No amount of wine could drown the fluttering in the pit of the Inquisitor’s stomach, much to her chagrin.

She knew from Josephine’s look that the Ambassador smelled the alcohol on her breath. She already had two generous glasses before ever coming down to the tourney grounds that morning, and though it had served to numb her anxiety at first, the very sight of the dirt arena in front of her had set her stomach to bouncing around like a fish out of water. She was caught halfway between wanting to run back to the castle and hurling on the spot.

That changed, however, at the tail end of Josephine’s announcement regarding the new day’s event.

One of Leliana’s agents suddenly came rushing forward into the arena, jogging past where the Inquisition’s champions stood in a line opposite their Orlesian counterparts.

“Ambassador, wait!” he called as he ran up to the Inner Circle’s box.

“What is it now, I wonder?” Dorian muttered somewhere behind her.

“What is it, Scout?” Josephine inquired as the crowd murmured around them.

“There is someone who says he wants to join the Inquisition’s side!”

Gasps. One of them might have even been Trevelyan’s.

“Damn. Who d’you think wants to even the odds for us?” Varric asked quietly.

“I’m not sure we should look a gift horse in the mouth,” Vivienne pointed out.

“And who is this person?” Josephine continued.

The scout shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ambassador, but I don’t rightly know. He says he wants to compete anonymously. He wishes to be known only by his prowess and his devotion to the Inquisition’s cause.”

More theatrical gasps. This was followed by one of the Chevaliers angrily marching towards the box and pointing threateningly at the Ambassador. “This is unacceptable! You cannot allow-”

“On the contrary, Ser Philippe,” Josephine interrupted firmly, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear her clearly. “I most certainly _can_. We prepared for this tournament with five champions to match five challengers, until one of our chosen was stricken ill unexpectedly. Four against five can hardly be considered fair or honorable, and if someone wishes to fill the vacancy left on our side, then I say, bring him forth and let the duels begin!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd. Josephine turned back to her seat and promptly sat beside the Inquisitor with a rather smug smile on her face. Trevelyan could have sworn it was mirrored on her other side by Leliana, who gave the Ambassador a tiny nod of approval.

As the scouts and soldiers in charge of keeping the event orderly began matching up the challengers, the newcomer emerged from the Inquisition’s side. He was armored plainly in a full harness of steel. Or perhaps it was silverite. Either way, it gleamed brightly in the sunlight, polished to a blinding sheen, with no markers or heraldry or anything to indicate who the wearer might be. An armet, with a single crimson feather bobbing at the back, concealed the man’s countenance from view. He wore no shield, but a bastard sword hung at his side.

“He walks confidently,” Vivienne observed.

“Yes,” Dorian agreed. “Let us see if there is something to that swagger.”

“Prolly a pisshat,” Sera remarked darkly.

“A pisshat we _need_ ,” Varric reminded her.

“Shh! It’s starting!”

And the initial round of five began.

Cassandra was first, being pitted against the very same Ser Philippe who had so vocally objected to the Inquisition’s odds being evened out. Apparently he was quite flustered by the occurrence, so much that the Seeker easily eliminated him within two minutes via a rather clever disarming move. This proved rather quickly that one-on-one dueling would be a much different story – without the benefit of the Chevaliers being able to work together, they were faced with the prowess of the Inquisition’s champions alone, which revealed their individual weaknesses.

Blackwall’s first duel resulted much the same outcome. The Warden had eschewed his sword for his favored axe, a weapon which Trevelyan knew he much preferred and could use to devastating effect. He rushed his opponent, immediately putting them on the defensive, and the next thing the Inquisitor knew, the Chevalier was on the ground screaming his yield, blood streaming from his freshly-gashed sword arm.

It was barely audible, though, over the enthusiastic screams of the spectators.

This pattern was repeated with Rylen and Michel, the latter of whom sent the audience into an even greater frenzy with his stunning defeat of the very same Chevalier who had defeated him the previous day. But when the anonymous champion at last took the field, the crowd rather suddenly quieted. They knew not who this man was, and though it was obvious many lauded his bravery, they were unsure whether or not his skill would match up to his fellows.

They didn’t have to worry long.

The Chevalier who had been pitted against the Inquisition’s newest champion began on the defensive, unsure of this man’s style. The first thirty seconds of the bout felt like years as the two circled, and the air was heavy with anticipation. The silver knight made a few quick flicks in the Chevalier’s direction, just with the tip of his flashing blade, and these were easily batted away.

But it soon became apparent that the anonymous champion was merely toying with his prey.

“That guy has got balls,” Varric said with a whistle. “Look how casual he is.”

And indeed, it seemed the silver-clad warrior wasn’t expending any energy at all and yet was managing to keep his opponent at bay. The Chevalier opposite him had fallen into a stance straight out of an arms manual, goading his nameless challenger with quick advances forward followed by swift retreats. But the anonymous man didn’t fall for the luring taunts, remaining at a distance, always watching his opponent, but his body was undeniably relaxed.

This was _his_ field, and just by his posture, everyone knew it.

Trevelyan found her eyes riveted to this unknown warrior. His armor was well-fitted, such that his handsome build was not at all hidden by the layered plates. His movements were almost like a cat, fluid and graceful, even if his muscular form might suggest otherwise. There was something oddly familiar about it, but she couldn’t quite place it…

At last, the Chevalier’s patience broke. The Inquisitor pitied the Orlesian; if this was how he felt after only a minute into the first round, he would be in for a rough day. He lunged at the silver armored knight, but his attack was deflected. The tables were then abruptly turned. In a blur of action, the anonymous warrior feinted high, quickly bringing his blade back down to cut underneath the Chevalier’s upraised arms and across the gap between breastplate and belt. Blood stained the tip of the bastard sword scarlet as the unnamed knight then closed the space between them, slamming his boot into the Chevalier’s chest before he could recover. Back the Orlesian sprawled, and onto his chest the Inquisition’s champion pounced, disarming the man before forcing a yield.

The first round was theirs.

The cheers that followed were very nearly deafening. Whilst the contenders were pulled away for healing, Varric playfully punched Trevelyan’s shoulder from behind, and she smiled.

Perhaps things would be all right after all.

The second round went much the same as the first, with only Rylen succumbing to his new opponent. When the third round arrived, however, the Inquisition began to falter. Blackwall and Rylen both were forced to yield this time, with only Cassandra, Michel, and the anonymous warrior remaining yet undefeated. Rylen never recovered for the remainder of the duels, losing the fourth and fifth rounds. Michel lost his fourth but made a comeback in the fifth, while Blackwall’s results were just the opposite.

This left Cassandra and the anonymous champion as the tied winners of the day, who had together led the Inquisition to victory.

When those of the Inquisition realized that the previous day’s defeat had, essentially, been nullified, the roar of the audience became nigh unbearable. It took all of Trevelyan’s willpower not to join in the cheering and yelling, whooping and hollering. The energy in the air was palpable, and even those in the Inner Circle’s box had a difficult time preventing themselves from celebrating the victory.

Josephine, beaming, beckoned both Cassandra and the silver knight forth, proffering them both roses to give to the people of their choosing, as she had done the Chevalier the day before. Cassandra immediately handed hers to her anonymous comrade, and when he hesitantly took it with a questioning stance, the Seeker merely smiled, dipped her head respectfully, and began walking towards the Inquisition’s lists.

Josephine shrugged. “It seems you have two to gift, good ser.”

Everyone watched, then, as the warrior promptly strode up to the box, lifted both roses to his visor as he would his sword in salute, and then extended them upwards to the Inquisitor.

This time, her smile was genuine as she took the flowers from the man’s gloved fingers. As his head was tilted upwards, the sunlight caught the briefest glint of his eyes behind his visor, and she fixated on those two shining points for a moment before she settled back in her seat, holding these stems much more delicately than she had the Chevalier’s token.

She had asked for a knight in shining armor. And she certainly had gotten one.

\-------------------------------------------

Once safely behind the cover of the tents, Cullen immediately sought out the agents of Leliana’s who had helped him get to the grounds disguised. He had no time to waste. He had to get back to the infirmary wing before the Inquisitor – or anyone else – decided to pay him a visit. He was stripped out of his armor, which was left behind in a chest, and then thrown into loose-fitting clothes, with a hooded cloak overtop. He then swiftly began making his way back to the castle, blending in with the crowed, one of the scouts tailing him to make sure no one payed close attention to his retreat to the infirmary.

“You make it all right, ser?” the door guard asked when he finally reached his room.

He glanced behind him. No one was there.

“More than,” he replied quietly. “We won the day.”

The scout grinned. “Excellent, ser. I’ll keep an eye out for followers.”

“Good. Thank you.”

He washed up quickly, trying his best to rid himself of sweat and battle-grime. His hair was a mess, but that couldn’t be helped. Disrobing down to his breeches again, he slipped in bed just in time to hear someone quickly climbing the stair.

_Uh oh…_

More quiet voices. Then, the guard opened the door as Cullen expected he would.

“Ser, it is the Inquisitor again. She says she has news to share.”

“Let her in.”

“Of course, ser.”

In swept Lady Trevelyan, almost before the guard could open the door fully enough for her to enter. The difference in her attitude was like night and day. Now she was all smiles, beaming and radiant, almost as if she were illuminated from within.

“Commander!” she said, pulling out the stool and perching atop it. “How are you feeling?” she squinted as she scrutinized his features, and for a brief moment, he feared he had forgotten something incriminating. “You look a bit… _damp_. Did you have a fever?”

“I, ah, _ahem_ , a small one, I think, but it must have broken not long ago.”

Maker damn it all, he hated lying. Especially to her.

“Oh, that is good to hear,” she said. “I will be sure to make this brief, then, so I don’t overtax you.” She leaned towards him, grinning widely, her tone infused with her excitement and joy. “We won! The day is ours! All thanks to an anonymous champion who fought on our behalf!”

He struggled to look truly shocked. “You don’t say.”

“I do!” she affirmed, slightly bouncing in her seat. “You know what that means, don’t you?” She took hold of his hand again. “We have a chance! A real chance! We can win this after all!”

He mirrored her smile, resisting the urge to swipe his thumb over her knuckles. “I am glad to hear it, Inquisitor. Let us hope the Maker continues to smile on us.”

“Yes, let’s,” she agreed with a solemn nod. Then, after a moment, she added, “I wish you could have been there to see those awful Chevaliers beaten like they were. You would’ve loved it. Everyone was amazing, and…” she trailed, glancing away and laughing a little to herself. “Oh, Cullen, your soldiers are screaming themselves silly every day like their voices alone will win it for us.”

He chuckled. “That certainly sounds like them.”

“I think half the nobles Josephine invited are going to go home deaf in one ear.”

“Perhaps that was part of her plan.”

“You know, I’m starting to believe it.”

They both laughed.

Then, after a moment, she sighed, standing once more. “Well, I don’t mean to prattle on. I just thought I would share the good news. I thought it would make you feel a little better. Perhaps even speed your recovery a bit.” She patted the top of his hand. “Rest, now, Commander. Tomorrow…well, tomorrow, it will all be over. Whatever happens…”

He turned his hand over and caught hers in a gentle grasp. “Whatever happens, my lady, I am with you.”

The expression on her face, then, was even better than the one at the tourney grounds, when he had lifted the roses towards her and she briefly looked like a baffled princess taking flowers from a fairytale knight; some small part of him regretted she didn’t know it was him, but all would be revealed soon enough.

Now, though, she seemed even more exposed and vulnerable…as though all titles, façades, and pretense had been stripped away to reveal the true person underneath. It was a rare glimpse of the woman he had grown to adore in these past months, and he wished she could show it more often.

She stared at him for a moment, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and pink tinting her cheeks. Then her gaze softened, becoming almost tearful, and she smiled a warm smile that went straight to his heart.

Squeezing his hand back, she whispered, “Thank you.”

\-------------------------------------------

It all came down to him.

The score was twelve to twelve. The jousts had been far more difficult for the Inquisition’s champions, as only the Chevaliers and Michel had extensive experience with such things. Everyone on the Inquisition side had been unhorsed at least once, if not twice over the course of the tournament. Thankfully, though, that had no bearing on the final score of the match – merely the rapidity at which the contest in question devolved into a duel. After Cassandra’s third unhorsing in a row on the very first pass, Cullen began to suspect the Seeker was throwing the joust on purpose to hurry the matches along…

Unfortunately, even with feet back on the ground, the champions had not fared well. Already battered and disoriented from their falls, it was easy for the Chevaliers to press the advantage. Cullen himself had been outmatched once already, and despite the potion having done its work to heal the yielding wound, his left arm still stung from the force of the blow. He wouldn’t be surprised if half his body was purple and blue for weeks after this was over.

And it was, indeed, almost over. For good or ill.

_We can’t lose now. Not after all this._

He fought to hold his horse back in the lists as he and his opponent awaited the signal to ride forth and face each other. For some ungodly reason, Dennet had given him the feistiest charger in the whole stables for this. Perhaps it was in hopes that the fiery stallion would hit that much harder when he was finally allowed to burst into action. Regardless, it was becoming more difficult to keep the damned horse in check, and it was quickly wearing him out.

“Show ‘em who’s boss, ser,” Leliana’s agent said as he looked out onto the field. “Let’s finish this.”

All Cullen did was nod.

At last, the sharp clanging of a bell served as the summons. Cullen breathed out long and slow, the sound echoing inside his helmet, and then let his horse walk.

Across from him, the last Chevalier to duel did the same. They were both armed with slender lances, designed to shatter easily, given a hasty paint job by the workers who had put the whole thing together. Two more lances were ready for both of them – one for each available pass – but Cullen had a feeling only one was all he would be able to use this time.

They sat still atop their steeds, waiting at opposite ends of the tilt for their signal to charge. Cullen could hear the hum of the crowd beyond his helmet, the huffing of his horse beneath him, but all of that seemed to fade away to nothing…

“ _Charge on!_ ”

All he had to do was let go of the reins. His steed did the rest. Time seemed to slow as he gripped his shield firmly and lowered his lance, couching it under his arm as the stallion charged, surging forward with unbridled power. Beyond the slit of his visor, he focused on his opponent’s shield as it came closer and closer, aiming for the center of the chequered yellow and blue face…

A ripple shuddered through his body, vibrated through his bone, pain exploding in his arm and shoulder. He was thrown back violently, his spine arcing over the cantle of his saddle. His feet departed his stirrups, and it was all he could do to keep his balance as his horse kept thundering on. The world reeled as he struggled to right himself, and he bounced around like a stuffed toy as his horse was halted by Leliana’s men.

But he was still seated.

The agents were shouting something while he recovered, but it was impossible to understand them over the roar of the crowd. A brief look to the lance in his hand revealed the thing had splintered into a thousand pieces. Eyes wide, he looked back over his shoulder.

There was the Chevalier, scrambling to get up.

Adrenaline surged. Cullen dropped both lance and shield, threw himself from the saddle, and drew his sword from its sheath at his side.

_Time to end this._

He could see nothing, hear nothing beyond his opponent. He could feel nothing beyond the sword in his hand and his feet on the ground. The Chevalier was quickly armed with a fresh shield and his saber as the agents took away the center tilt to make room, and the Orlesian smacked the blade upon the shield’s surface in a brazen taunt.

What happened next occurred so fast, that if one were to ask him for details, he would not be able to recall them. It began as a savage roar and rush of blades, but quickly transformed into a deadly dance, an exchange of steel on steel so rhythmic it was a drum-beat. This fight was just another chess game, an advancing of pieces until victory was achieved; blow for blow, move for move, some gains, some losses…

\-------------------------------------------

Trevelyan sat on the edge of the bench, her eyes unblinking as they were riveted to the fight before her.

It was close. So close. Victory so near it was almost tangible. This poor man carried the weight of it all on his shoulders.

_Andraste, grant him strength…_

They each landed blows on the other, blows that cut past armor and padding, but neither was willing to yield. Blood ran in thin little trickles, staining polished silver. The Inquisitor wrung her gloved hands in her lap as she watched, unable to keep still.

_Please, please, please…_

And then, suddenly, it was all over.

The Chevalier’s thrust went too far. The silver warrior stepped side just in time to seize the Orlesian and toss him onto the ground with the forward momentum. Pouncing atop the prone Chevalier’s back, the nameless challenger wrenched the saber out of his hand and threw it halfway across the field, forcing a yield with the edge of his sword at the Orlesian’s exposed throat.

Everyone leapt to their feet, including the entirety of the Inner Circle’s box, and the mountains echoed with their cheers. They had won. They had finally won.

Across the field, the others of the Inquisition champions embraced, clapping each other on the back and cheering right along with the spectators. The Chevaliers, on the other hand, hung their heads in shame as their comrade was brought back to have his wounds tended.

Once the crowd had calmed enough to proceed with the closing of the tournament and all participants were healed, they strode out to the center of the grounds together – there, the Inquisition’s champions would receive their accolades, and the Chevaliers would be told their fate.

Josephine gestured for silence, and when she could finally be understood by all without screaming, she began. “And thus, the Inquisition is victorious. Let this be a harsh lesson to our challengers, and any who would attempt to threaten us with the same. Ser Pierre, Ser Philippe, Ser Stefan, Ser Jean-Marie, and Ser Rolande, meet the champion who ensured your defeat!”

At that, the unnamed warrior didn’t just raise his visor – he began removing his helmet entirely, fingers moving to unclasp it. Trevelyan glanced to both Josephine and Leliana with furrowed brow, and they merely answered with knowing smiles. Did they somehow…?

She glanced back to the silver-clad knight, and when his helm was finally removed from his head, revealing the countenance beneath, she felt her jaw drop.

_Cullen…_

“May I present to you Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces you so foolishly insulted with this audacious and imprudent contest!”

“ _YEAHHHHH!_ ”

The subsequent gasps from the spectators were drowned out by the enthusiastic roar from Cullen’s troops, who jumped up and down and whooped and hollered in the stands. Rylen immediately broke from the line of champions to cuff the Commander on the back of the head before embracing him tightly, laughing all the while. Cassandra practically beamed, clapping enthusiastically along with Blackwall and Ser Michel, who both grinned widely. The clapping grew louder and louder as the Inquisition’s supporters stood in the stands, cheering and whistling.

“Well would you look at that,” Varric remarked with a chuckle. “Storybook material. And I’m borrowing it.”

“My, my,” Vivienne said. “What a bit of theater they set up.”

“That’s not the only thing they set up,” Dorian said with a bit of a sing-song note in his voice.

Trevelyan couldn’t process all of the emotions that washed over her at once. Cullen had been faking illness this whole time so he might fight on her behalf as an anonymous challenger. On the one hand, she was mildly miffed she had been so easily deceived. But then again, it _was_ such a wonderful surprise…

And yet… _why?_ Why make her believe he was sick? Why keep her in the dark? She understood the increased impact of the reveal on the Chevaliers, but that couldn’t be all…could it?

And then she remembered the roses.

As if on cue, Josephine called forth Cassandra and Cullen, who were once more tied as the tournament victors, to receive their favours. This time, there was a hint of cheekiness to Cassandra’s expression as she handed hers off to Cullen yet again. The Commander himself tinted pink a little, but seemed emboldened by the repetitive chanting from the soldiers behind him.

“ _In-qui-si-tor! In-qui-si-tor!_ ”

He stepped sideways, and extended the roses up towards her, with only a little less boldness in his gesture now that he had been revealed. Cheers and whoops filling in the background, Inquisitor Trevelyan took the roses from him with a gracious nod of thanks, all the while her heart pounded and her mind was awhirl.

_Maker…does this mean…?_

As she sat back on the bench, she lost all sense of what was going on around her – the Chevalier’s instructions to leave the proximity of the castle immediately, the announcement of a five-course feast in Skyhold’s hall that very night, the dismissal of the spectators one final time. Only when Leliana tapped her shoulder gently was she broken out of the haze of thoughts that consumed her mind.

“Congratulations, Inquisitor,” she said with a wink and a grin as she stood to leave. “You are free to choose again.”

Of course. The marriage. That was what all of this boiled down to. Not just the Inquisition’s honor – _her_ honor. Her _life_. Her freedom to choose.

As everyone brushed past her on their way out of the box, offering their own congratulations and promising to see her at the feast, it hit her like a ton of bricks.

Her knight in shining armor was there all along and had been since the beginning. She was just too blind to see him.

\-------------------------------------------

She rushed through the crowd, pushing to get to her Commander before her nerves failed her.

She had been such an idiot.

She loved him. And she _had_ loved him since Haven. But she never thought he would return her feelings. He was too professional. It would be too improper. So she’d bottled it all up, hidden it away, bid herself never to think on it again.

Until now.

Now, she needed to know for sure. Needed to have confirmation that what she thought she knew was true.

She clutched the roses in her hand as she marched to the competitors’ tents, where they had armed and armored themselves before combat each day. She knew exactly which tent was Cullen’s because it was the one with the most commotion coming from within. When she reached it at last, she ducked into the flap, noticing a number of his lieutenants and corporals there, as well as Rylen and Cassandra. Cullen was already out of his armor, dressed in a plain shirt and his usual breeches. He caught her gaze as she entered, and his expression was one of surprise, but with perhaps a hint of trepidation in it.

“All right, everyone out!” she barked, abruptly putting an end to the raucous assembly. “I need to speak with my Commander, alone.”

Immediately, the guests dispersed at her command, although one of them dared to give a faint wolf-whistle as they ducked out of the tent. Someone must have summarily smacked them, though, because it was followed by a loud “ _Ow!_ ”

When the final person filed out, heavy silence followed, and the two of them were left staring at each other across what felt like a gulf, even though they were, in all actuality, only a few paces apart.

“You have my apologies, Inquisitor,” Cullen began at last, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to deceive you, but Leliana-”

“Do you mean it?”

His brow furrowed at her as she interrupted him with the question. He cocked his head. “I’m sorry, what?”

“ _These_ ,” she said, lifting the roses and shaking them. “You know as well as I do what they mean. What they stand for. Did you mean it? When you gave them to me?”

He dropped his hand by his side. His cheeks and ears went a little pink, and he was silent for several moments. His Adam’s apple bobbed once.

“Yes.”

The answer was soft, but it seemed to echo. For a long moment afterwards, she merely stood there, meeting his eyes as wave after wave of emotion washed over her.

“Maker,” she whispered. “I’ve been such a fool.”

With that, she strode forward, closing the gap between them, and before he could react, she threw her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers and capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

She put everything she had into it in a desperate attempt to convey everything she had held back for months and months. For an agonizing second, he seemed too startled to even respond to her, stiff and unmoving, and a sharp spike of fear struck the back of her mind – the question that she had overstepped her bounds.

But then, at last, he answered, his arms curling about her to pull her tighter as he kissed her back, a long breath let out through his nose as he relaxed into what became a series of kisses. He slowed her down, transforming desperation into gentle confirmation with every lingering caress of lips. His warmth enveloped her. The smell of leather and metal and _him_ filled her nostrils, the faint taste of sweat greeting her tongue. The texture of his mouth, his stubble, his scar tantalized her, and she couldn’t stop coming back for more and more and more…

Suddenly, though, he pulled back, much to her disappointment, releasing her lips and pressing his forehead to hers with his eyes shut. They stood that way for several moments, completely silent, merely basking in the sensation of mutual affection as they listened to the people far beyond the tent, laughing and talking.

Then…

“Trevelyan?”

“Yes, Cullen?”

His eyes opened, and she felt as though she would drown in their warm, honeyed depths as she met them with her own.

“If you’ve been a fool, then I’ve been a bigger one.”

She smiled, and they both broke out into laughter that made her heart ache with fullness. She could feel tears stinging in her eyes as she reached up, stroking his cheek gently and letting her finger trail down his jaw to his chin. “Well, can we at least be fools together, then?”

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards, and his eyes half-closed as he angled his face downwards, lips hovering over hers.

“I would like nothing more, my lady.”

And they kissed again.


End file.
